


These Lives We've Lived

by slothy_girl



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothy_girl/pseuds/slothy_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Our souls already know each other, don’t they?... It’s our bodies that are new.” – Karen Ross</p><p>Or, a look into the different lives these two souls have lived, crossing continents and time to meet each other again and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Lives We've Lived

**Author's Note:**

> I spent a lot of time on this one, writing and researching and stuff, so hopefully it shows! I still haven't read much of the books, but I have watched the movies and read fic and looked stuff up, for whatever that's worth.
> 
> I got the date for the Glade section from a yahoo question thing where it was the general consensus, so if it's wrong, that's why.
> 
> All the names here are real names that I found on various websites; some of them even have some cool meanings.

“And when one of them meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and would not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people who pass their whole lives together; yet they could not explain what they desire of one another. For the intense yearning which each of them has towards the other does not appear to be the desire of lover's intercourse, but of something else which the soul of either evidently desires and cannot tell…”

-Plato ( _Plato’s Symposium_ )

~x~

_Athens, Greece 360 BCE_

Antonios wakes up to the sounds of singing birds and fingers gently running along his cheek. He stretches slightly then burrows further into his nest of blankets and the warm body curled protectively around his, content to stay still and let the other man do as he wished. The man huffs a soft noise of amusement.

The fingers caress the lines of his face, pausing over moles, slipping over the delicate skin of his eyelids, across the ridge of his brows, before sliding down the bridge of his nose to outline the sharp bow of his mouth as he smiles. A finger dips into the well of one of his dimples.

The brunet laughs quietly.

“Oh, my beloved Tonio, what am I going to do with you?” Nadir asks, soft and rough with sleep, and he can hear the crooked smile in the older man’s voice, the endeared lilt to his speech.

The sounds of the other guests beginning to shift on their couches stirs the early morning stillness that had settled around them. Somewhere nearby, Bion and Ariston groan loudly, having indulged in the wine too freely the night before.

“Just love me,” Antonios murmurs into the last moments before the others fully come to, pulling Nadir closer with an arm around his waist. A hand passes through his hair, tangling in the strands at the nape of his neck, warm and reassuring and grounding.

“Of course.”

~x~

_Campania, Rome 142 AD_

All of the would-be gladiators stand at rigid attention before him, their manacled hands clanking against each other.

“That one,” Tiberius says, pointing to the blond with the bruised, swollen face. The man’s shoulders seem to slump; perhaps he thinks being a gladiator a better prospect than what Tiberius has in store for him. Well, Tiberius hopes to prove him wrong. 

“Ah, yes, a fine slave,” the trader says, waving the others back to the holding cell. They haggle some over the price, and though Tiberius parts with a somewhat overpriced sum, he doesn’t feel worse off for it. The trader unlocks the iron shackles covering the man’s wrists, leaving the two alone, his pouch of bronze and silver coins clutched tightly in his hand.

Tiberius adjusts his toga, asking, “Do you speak Latin?"

“Yes, domine,” the man says in somewhat stilted Latin. A Briton then, by his accent and the hints of winding tattoos Tiberius can see through the blood and dirt on his arms. The blond stares hard down on the dusty floor.

“What is your name?”

“Nuallán, domine.”

“I am Tiberius Aurelius Flavian, and I free you.”

The blond’s head snaps up, eyes wide. His brows crinkle. “What?”

“You are free,” Tiberius says, his mouth twisted into a half smile. “If you wish, you may reside in my household with the others until you are fully healed. I only ask that you help us with the chores; I shall pay you a hefty sum in recompense for your services, and once you have enough, you may be on your way.”

“I—” he pauses, lost for words. Having your freedom given to you after years of slavery would do that to a person, Tiberius thinks.

“If you do not wish to do that, you may do as you like for you are a free man now. Just let me know,” Tiberius says lightly. He gestures for Nuallán to follow him, catching him gently by the arm to hold him up when his injured leg gives out. 

The blond grabs the hand on his arm, limping along beside him. “I will take your offer… Thank you.”

~x~

_Florence, Italy 1520_

“Hold still, you silly nymph!”

Nero laughs, an open joyous thing that makes Terzo smile behind the charcoal sketch he is attempting to flesh out. It is hard enough trying to sketch something so beautiful, but it’s worse still when that thing is constantly moving. He brushes a few more tentative strokes over the line where the hips and thighs are supposed to be, looking up when he hears a small huff of mock indignation.

“Why don’t you come be the model then, and I will be the artist,” Nero drawls, rolling his shoulders and shifting to take weight off of his bad leg, unconcerned with his nudity. It’s no surprise considering he has modeled for Terzo for years, but it still makes Terzo’s heart race in his chest to see how comfortable he is around him. “I need to take a break anyways, amore mio; my leg is about to give out.”

Terzo puts his sketch journal aside and moves to carefully help Nero down from his pedestal. Safely on the ground, the brunet brushes a tender hand along the soft skin of his love’s back and presses a kiss to the sharp edge of his jaw.

“How do you want me then, caro?” he asks.

The older man smirks, eyes dancing as he slides a firm hand down Terzo’s chest. “Right here is fine,” he says, fitting his fingers into the natural holds of the brunet’s face to drag him in.

Terzo is certainly no Leonardo di Vinci or Michelangelo, the bastards, but from where he’s standing, he’s certainly the lucky one here.

~x~

_Atlantic Ocean 1692_

Theodore has always hated sailing. Not only is he awful at it, never quite able to pick up on how things work or what to do, but he has never been able to fully enjoy the ride either, nausea churning his stomach as the sea churns the ship to and fro. Even less so when it’s been three months of it with many more left to go.

Why does he want to go to America again?

“Agh,” he groans, clutching at the wooden handrails, wind and water blowing in his face. Finished for the moment, he wipes his mouth with a handkerchief and gratefully accepts the waterskin the nice boy, Charles, he thinks, offers him. He swishes a mouthful to get rid of the rancid taste, spitting it out; then, he takes a sip just to feel the cool liquid ease his burning throat. He sighs.

“Thank you, Charles.”

“Not a problem, sir,” the curly haired boy says, taking the skin back and leaving him alone at the bow of the ship.

“I’m guessing you’re not much of a sea-man,” someone says.

Theodore turns to find one of the ship’s crewmates tying off one of the many sail ropes to one of the side tethering points, a blond man with one of the kindest smiles he’s ever seen, when the man cares to smile at all.

“Is it that obvious?” he asks, thrusting his hand out after a moment. “My name is Theodore Thomas by the way; I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced before.”

Shaking his head, the blond walks over, taking the proffered hand. His skin is rough and calloused, likely from his years of work aboard ships. “Nathaniel Isaac.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Theodore smiles, squeezing the warm hand in his, feeling the best he’s been in months.

~x~

_Tennessee, United States 1862_

Tanner shouts in pain, dropping his rifle and collapsing backwards into the gore stained earth; he clutches at his shoulder where one of those fucking Yankee’s must have managed to shoot him. His hand quickly grows tacky with oozing blood, the wound burning like it’s on fire.

“Retreat!” his commanding officer bellows somewhere behind him.

Tanner watches as what’s left of his company turns tail and rushes back from where they came, a sea of men parting around him, not even stopping to help him. They probably think he’s a lost cause.

He tries to roll onto his side, to at least get back up, to retreat with his men. He doesn’t want to get left behind. He must move something wrong, perhaps the bullet is still in there, but suddenly the world tilts sideways and things go black.

“Bloody fucking Christ,” Tanner resurfaces into consciousness to a tense, accented voice muttering.

“Wha—?” he slurs, opening his eyes to see a blurred, blond figure, a medic maybe, hunching over his shoulder.

“Shut the hell up.” The blond does _something_ , causing a sickening, painful twinge in his shoulder. Tanner cries out, trying to squirm away.

“Hold him still, Tessa,” the man commands. A brunette comes into his line of sight, her pale face covered in grime; she grabs onto his uninjured arm and chest, bracing herself against any movement.

Several painful moments pass where Tanner thinks he may pass out again when, finally, the medic shows him the bullet he’s been rooting around in his wound for. “There.”

The two maneuver him around, dressing his wound and propping him up long enough to give him water.

“You’ll live,” the man says, pushing his blood stained sleeves back up to his elbows and making motions to someone out of eye line.

“Thanks,” Tanner rasps to the blond, his vision focusing for a second, a second where he sees the most interesting dark eyes he’s ever seen, before it all goes dark.

~x~

_Harlem, New York 1928_

“Why the hell did you bring me here, Tim?” Min-sun tiredly asks. 

Tim pursues his lips and picks at the sticker on his beer, peeling the corners off. The jazz artist on the bar’s stage is in his final set for the night, playing out the last fading sounds of wistful twangs on his cello. When he’s done, the real music will start.

“You know why,” he says.

His friend sighs, rolling his eyes and taking a pull from his drink. “Yeah, I know. You and your little illegal crush.”

“Shh!” Tim roughly prods him in the arm and glances around. “Quiet ‘bout things you don’t understand. You don’t know what they’d do to a fella if they heard you talking shit like that.”

The Korean man rolls his eyes again but doesn’t comment.

“Hello, Harlem,” a familiar, deep voice rumbles over the microphone. Tim whips around in his seat, watching as a handsome black man adjusts the strap of his saxophone.

“My name is Alexander and me and my man, Neil here, will be entertaining you tonight.” Behind him, a blond gives a little nod of acknowledgement before sitting down at the piano on stage, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Tim watches in awe as the two of them play; since he’d discovered them, discovered _him_ , months ago, he’d been coming to this bar just to hear them play, to watch Neil’s fingers dance over ivory keys, to catch the occasional crooked smile that just makes _things_ happen to Tim that he just doesn’t understand.

Their music is good, but even Tim can admit to himself that it’s not the music that keeps him coming back.

~x~

_Washington DC, United States 2015_

“Yeah!” Tyler yells, waving his rainbow flag high and proud, keeping a vague eye out for Beth, who had disappeared into the crowd when the announcement was made. The undulating mass is brimming with excitement and happiness as people celebrate the legalization of gay marriage statewide. Streamers and confetti and glitter rain down, spurring people on. Everyone is cheering; many are crying. He understands the sentiment.

The crowd suddenly shifts, and someone is pushed into his side. He looks to see one of the cutest boys he’s ever seen.

“Oh, sorry!” The man says, grinning, his voice heavy with an English accent. He’s warm and smells really nice, this mix of musk and earthy tones; the rainbows painted on his cheeks are cracking slightly, and his eyes are bright with excitement, and Tyler _can’t stop starring at him._

“Is there something on my face?” the blond drawls, his grin twisting into something closer to a leer.

Tyler flushes, stuttering out over the roar of the crowd, “What’s your name? I’m Tyler!”

“Nick! Nice to meet you!” He offers a hand, which Tyler gladly takes, threading their fingers together to hold onto it, to never let him go— and receives a firm squeeze, they’re in this together, in response.

The brunet grins, heart pounding and brimming with joy. “Nice to meet you too!”

~x~

 _The Glade_ _2232_

The first time they meet, Thomas swears he knows him, for a split second, when Alby points him out and he comes walking over, a limp in his gate. And then it’s gone, fleeting, but a feeling remains. There’s something familiar about this guy, about his blond hair, the darkness of his eyes, his lean frame, but Thomas just can’t seem to put his finger on it.

Where does he know him from?

“Newt,” the second in command says, his hand warm and fitting neatly into the empty crevices of Thomas’s own.

And it’s kind of scary, this almost overwhelming sensation of the familiar, when he can’t place how or even _what_ he knows, not really, he couldn’t even remember his name at first, so. But he thinks on it, and thinks and thinks, and every time he thinks he gets close to solving the mystery, it slips through his fingers, elusive as smoke. But it’s really actually starting to bother him because now that he’s started getting to know this boy, that feeling grows. 

And it grows and it grows, until he has started to know things, things about Newt, things he hasn’t even _seen_ or _felt_ or been _told_ —

Like how gentle and tender Newt can be or how resilient he is, that he can take a beating and still get back up; that his eyes crinkle at the sides and his nose scrunches up when he laughs, loud and uncontained. And how the calluses on his hands feel like a possessive admission against the hollow of Thomas’s jaw, a phantom caress; how it feels to be the subject of his intense focus, the elegance of his capable fingers, the smell of fresh churned earth that seems to follow him everywhere, a smell that has nothing to do with the gardening he does in the Glade.

Thomas _knows_ these things, and the longer he spends around the blond, the more he knows.

Are these memories actually his? Are they from before the Glade? Is this something to do with the shanks running it?

But why?

He just doesn’t know. He just doesn’t _understand_.

A rustling startles him from his thoughts, and he glances up to see, who would have thought, Newt, his arms crossed and brows raised.

“Hey Tommy,” Newt says. “You should be getting all the sleep you can get. Early morning in the Maze tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah… Of course.” Thomas takes Newt’s hand and stands up, feeling déjà vu for a second at the contact, that off kilter feeling expanding in his chest. He tries to breathe through it.

The older boy grabs his arm before he can walk back towards the Homestead, his face a mask of concern. “Are you okay? What’s with the shuckface?”

"Yeah— No, I’m fine—” Thomas pauses, looking at Newt’s face—this face he _knows_ , this face he could map in the dark, that he intimately knows the feel of, all the sharp lines, the delicate curves, the smooth skin, the soft, pleasant give of his mouth—taking in a deep breath, asking, “Do you think we’ve known each other before?”

“What?”

“I just— I feel like we’ve met before all this.”

Newt hums and looks away, and for a second, Thomas wishes he could take it all back, wishes he hadn’t said anything; he even opens his mouth to say something, anything, to fix this before it could get any more awkward.

But Newt smiles, that crooked bend of his mouth that makes something in Thomas’s chest give out, and looks back at him, his eyes warm and dark, “Yeah, maybe.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
